


strike a match for me (on the cusp of tomorrow)

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Ghost!Sherlock, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have lost things you cannot understand”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes was murdered eight months before John Watson wanders into his flat. Being dead is an inconvenience, in more ways than one...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, former addict, brother of Mycroft Holmes, resident of 221B Baker Street, genius, had been dead for eight months, two days, and eleven hours when he met John Watson, doctor, former military, with a limp and a bullet wound.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her soul, still came up to dust his flat a bit every week, but her hip had been giving her trouble lately and she’d not been up in a few weeks. Sherlock didn’t care overmuch about dust, but he had been a bit lonely with no one to talk to in his flat, even if that someone couldn’t hear him.

He spent much of his time staring hungrily out the window, soaking up as much of London as he is able. He also spends a great deal of time solving what cases he can through the observations he makes by spending his time staring at a minuscule slice of London and her people, the ones that scurry by outside his window of his flat.

 

The morning he met John Watson was a difficult morning. He’d been standing next to his abandoned violin, absently plucking at its strings in an effort to have them make some kind of noise. It had been a fruitless effort, of course, as it always was, but he lived in hope that eventually he might be able to exert enough pressure to at least get a sound. This morning was no different than any other he’d had since he died, but for some reason, he was even more bored than normal. If only he could leave the flat and see more of the city he’d loved, perhaps then he’d be of some use to someone.

But now, his head cocked toward the heavy tread of an unknown person (male, in his early forties, walks with a cane and a limp) and Mrs. Hudson’s slightly lighter steps coming up the stairs. He turned to face the door to see what new potential tenant he had to chase off just as Mrs. Hudson opened it, setting off a swirl of dust motes to dance in the light streaming through Sherlock and the windows.

“Well, here we are then,” Mrs. Hudson was saying as the stranger (short, blond, ex-military by the stance, psychosomatic limp, shoulder wound) stepped through, looking around the flat. The man’s nose crinkled a bit.

“It’s a bit…cluttered,” he said. “I thought you’d have rented it a few times by now, being a prime location and all.”

“Oh. I’ve tried. It is a bit haunted, Doctor Watson⎯”

“Haunted? There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Sherlock snorted and turned back to look out the window. Another one to chase off⎯this Doctor Watson would be gone tomorrow after Sherlock got done proving his existence.

“Oh, there are, dear. I’ve heard him clattering about just like he used to.”

The doctor made a humming noise under his breath, not quite daring to contradict Mrs. Hudson. “Well, I’ll take it. Clean it up a bit, get rid of the clutter.” He turned to smile at Mrs. Hudson, who was staring at him in horror.

“Oh, I’m afraid you can’t throw out any of the items currently in the flat⎯it’s a part of the contract. Besides, he’ll be terribly angry. But I think it’ll be good for him to have someone else here.”

John’s brow furrowed a bit, but he didn’t protest. He cleared his throat and asked, “I’m sorry, but good for who?”

“Why, Sherlock, of course. He keeps people out. Never had a tenant last more than a few days. Most only last for a night, but I think you’ll stick around for a bit, Doctor. He likes you.”

Sherlock leaned back like an affronted cat.

“John, please,” the man said, fingers twitching on the handle of his (unnecessary) cane, “And how do you know he likes me?”

“Because you’re still here, dear.” Mrs. Hudson patted him on the arm in a kindly way. “Now, you get yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a bit with some tea. Just this once, mind⎯I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Ta,” John said as he limped over to the window, inadvertently stepping through Sherlock to push the curtain aside a bit further and look out. He turned back to the room after a moment, letting the curtain fall back into place.

“Right then,” John said, rolling his shoulders back. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but hello, if you’re there. I’m John, John Watson.” He waited for a moment, then chuckled to himself before making his way around the green chair that Sherlock had always preferred to sit in to sink into the smaller red chair, pulling out the Union Jack pillow from behind him as he settled in. 

Sherlock, for his part, was stunned into silence. No one had ever greeted him before. And until today, he hadn’t been sure that Mrs. Hudson knew he was there⎯she’d never greeted him or even talked to him on her visits to tidy up a bit. She’d always chattered, as a matter of course, but it always to herself. Sherlock didn’t quite know how to react to this man, this stranger⎯no, John⎯who had come into his flat and made himself at home, seeming not to care about the mess or the ghost haunting his flat.

He turned back to his violin and let his fingers run across the strings out of habit.

A single clear note rang out into the silence of the flat. 

John sat up straight, eyes wide, looking all over the flat for him. “Hello?”

Well. This would be interesting. He wished he’d read up more on the paranormal when he’d been alive⎯it would have been useful now to understand why, after eight months, he could at least make an impression on the living world. Judging by John’s reaction, he couldn’t see Sherlock, but perhaps that would come with time and exposure. Whatever it was, this new mystery was the most exciting thing to happen in months, and he vowed right then not to chase John off like he had all the others.

Sherlock smiled. “Hello,” he whispered back. 

John had settled back into his chair after getting no response, musical or otherwise, but his eyes kept flicking up over the top of the newspaper he’d brought up with him as if he were searching for something.

Yes, this would be interesting indeed, Sherlock thought as he settled onto the sofa to wait for Mrs. Hudson’s return.


	2. Chapter 2

What Sherlock did not expect was for this John to be _curious_. 

After Mrs. Hudson had come and dropped off tea⎯“Can’t stay, dear, I have book club this evening. Keys are there on the mantel, just let yourself in as you please.”⎯and John had drunk it (black, two sugars), he sat for a few moments, looking around the clutter littering every surface of the flat.

Sherlock went and stood next to him, crouching a bit so he was observing the same things as John. In front of them, his green chair. To their left, the pile of books he’d been looking through for Lestrade’s case and his own personal research. He noticed John’s eyes flick over the titles and then look up at the mantel. Using the armrest as a brace, John stood up and limped over to the mantel, running a careful hand through the dust before picking up the flat’s keys and shoving them in his pocket. He peered a bit more closely at the skull sitting in pride of place before turning away and looking out over the room once more, brow furrowed a bit. Sherlock moved right in front of him, watching him closely as John huffed a breath and strode with more confidence than he’d had coming in to the door, pulling it open and clattering down the stairs. 

Sherlock stopped just inside the door to his sitting room and sighed. John had least been respectful so far, unlike the other potential tenants Mrs. Hudson had brought along. Most everyone had moved things around without his permission, or in one instance, attempted to throw the skull away. The roar of the draught he’d summoned then sent so much crashing to the floor that Mrs. Hudson had scurried back up the stairs, snatched the skull away from the hapless tenant and in her ever-so-polite way told them to bugger right off. And now, he deduced, John was either going to go pick up some things from his former residence. So. Doctor John Watson planned to stay. Sherlock sat in his green chair, tented his fingers in front of his face, elbows braced on the arms of the chair, and waited for John to return. He wanted to observe this small, quiet man and see if maybe this man would be the one who could help him. 

 

John returned several hours later with a small suitcase and a carrier bag. Sherlock sniffed once and rolled his eyes at the smell of Chinese takeaway, from the restaurant down the street. “Should have gone to Angelo’s,” Sherlock muttered as John set down both suitcase and bag in the kitchen. 

After eating half of his lo mein and stowing the leftovers in the fridge, John grabbed his suitcase and drug it into the sitting room, unzipping it just enough to retrieve his laptop and set it on the coffee table before he started exploring the flat. Mrs. Hudson had given him a description of the place before they’d come up, but John wanted to see the rest of his new home himself. He walked down the short hallway, opening a door to a linen cupboard, a bathroom with gleaming white tile just opposite the linen cupboard, and then a door to the staircase (John decided to tackle those stairs tomorrow, when he hadn’t been walking about so much), and finally, the door at the end of the hallway which led to an almost utilitarian bedroom. He flicked on the light and smiled a bit at the lack of clutter that consumed the rest of the flat (he didn’t even want to think about why there were beakers and chemistry equipment scattered in amongst the pots and pans in the kitchen). 

“Perfect,” John said and went to fetch his suitcase.

“No no no no no no. No. That is _my_ room, not yours!” Sherlock exclaimed, trailing after John like a lost puppy before he finally got up the nerve to go _through_ John to beat him into the room. With a scowl, he made the bedroom’s temperature drop fifteen degrees with his displeasure. John drew up to an abrupt halt only two steps into the room and after a moment, slowly backed up until he was back in the hallway. 

Both John and Sherlock had matching thunderous frowns⎯Sherlock because he wanted at least one space in the flat for himself, and John because he would have to face those stairs after all. But John squared his shoulders and pushed open the door to the staircase and slowly made his way up the stairs, cane thumping with each step.

Sherlock stood in his doorway and refused to feel the guilt gnawing in his chest.

It took nearly an hour for John to come back down again, and when he did, it was with a look of determination on his face. Sherlock peered at him as John started to methodically, but carefully, inspect the piles of papers strewn about the sitting room, obviously looking for something. While John was looking for…whatever it was he was seeking, Sherlock used the opportunity to make some deductions about his new flatmate.

_Ex-military, doctor, RAMC then. Tan below the wrists⎯served in the desert⎯Iraq or Afghanistan, and recently, as tan is still quite evident. Invalided home for a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Picked up psychosomatic limp during recovery._ Sherlock prowled around the room, peering at John’s mobile and laptop. _Laptop is cheap, bought for efficiency. Mobile is…new. Likely came out since my demise. Heavy scratches around the charging port means the owner is alcoholic⎯can’t keep his hands steady enough to plug in the charger. This is not something John would buy, judging by the laptop and the cheap clothes, so a gift. But from whom….?_

John, meanwhile, was still searching for something, trying hard not to disturb too many of the piles Sherlock had strewn about the flat. He paused, finally, at a piece of paper half-hanging out of a large stack of precariously balanced files and gave a quiet ha! Of triumph. Before Sherlock could see what it was John had found, the shorter man had already reached his laptop and was carrying it back over to the small table Sherlock had used for his own laptop. John sat down, opened the laptop, frowned a bit as he poked at it to get to the free wifi from Speedy’s downstairs⎯“Have to ask Mrs. Hudson for the password,” John muttered as he finally got a connection. Sherlock huffed a bit, unable to keep himself from hovering over John’s shoulder to see what it was he was looking for. To his surprise, John started typing Sherlock’s name into Google. 

“Ah.” Sherlock said, a little miffed that he hadn’t caught on to the fact that John must have been looking for mail that had his name on it. But he leaned in closer, staring hungrily at the screen as John settled in to read. 

But there wasn’t much to be found on Sherlock Holmes, ( _Mycroft must have taken care of that,_ Sherlock thought) and so John opened up his blog. Sherlock, eyes flickering rapidly as he read through the inane entries, scoffed and flung himself on the couch as John steepled his fingers, staring blankly at the screen. “That drivel doesn’t help you, you know. You should fire your therapist.” Sherlock said, turning his head to look at John, who had finally, laboriously, begun typing. After a few sentences though, he exhaled harshly through his nose and rather forcefully shut the laptop.

John, still seated, closed his eyes for a moment before he sighed and levered himself upright. He dug around a bit on the table and then in the cracks of Sherlock’s chair before he found the channel changer and turned on the TV. Sherlock jumped at the sudden burst of noise and sat up on the couch, waiting for John to change the channel to something less…dull than some insipid show about desert island survival. But John had settled into his chair, remote forgotten at his side, and Sherlock wailed, “And of course he watches shite telly!” 

But despite himself, Sherlock found himself crossing the room to sit in his chair, pulling his feet up onto the seat as he had always done when watching telly, and leaned forward a bit, staring at the screen with wide, greedy eyes.

 

Five days after he’d moved in, John returned home from another frustrating shopping trip after an even more frustrating therapy session to find a strange man sitting in his flat.

“You’ve lasted longer than the others,” the man said, crossing his legs primly at the knee, clasping his hands in his lap and pinning John in place with his stare. “Why? What’s so special about you, Doctor Watson?”

John carefully set the shopping bags on the kitchen table before he slowly walked, cane left forgotten against the kitchen table, through to the sitting room, where the stranger was perched in the green chair. He narrowed his eyes at the man, finding himself falling into parade rest without realising what he was doing. “Who are you?” John finally asked after a long silence had spun out into the flat.

The man rolled his eyes. “Obviously, I know the man who used to rent this flat. I take an interest in his…doings and ensure that his wishes are upheld. None of the others have lasted this long, so there must be something special about you. My curiosity was piqued; Sherlock didn’t have friends, so he must be trying to tell me something about you. So, I’ll ask again. What is special about you? A former surgeon, shoulder wound, psychosomatic limp, gained in Afghanistan. Honourable discharge from the RAMC. Unable to perform surgery due to your left hand’s intermittent tremors, you’re seeking work in a local practice. Your military-ordered therapist is not helping you⎯you resent the sessions and your blog, such as it is, is deplorable. She cannot help you⎯you need more than what she can give you. You crave the rush of battle, of making life and death decisions in a matter of seconds, and you know that you’ll never have that again.”

John was staring at this stranger, stunned at the bare laying out of his life. “How?”

But he was ignored. “You are perfectly ordinary. Sherlock would not even have given you a second glance. So why are you still here?”

“Who are you?” John demanded again, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

“An interested party.” The man stood up, brushing down his coat with a sniff. He stalked across the room to stand uncomfortably close to John, who held his ground and didn’t flinch. The man smiled a shark’s smile. “I do so love a puzzle, Doctor Watson. Good day.”

“What can you tell me about him?” John asked. 

The stranger turned back around and leaned on an umbrella he had pulled from the stand by the door. “Tell you about whom?”

John huffed. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“You looked him up on the internet last night. You already know everything there is to know about him.” The man cocked his head, staring through John with an unsettling glare. “There is nothing else to know.”

John glared right back. 

The man smirked at him, glancing down at the tips of his shoes. “I will say, Doctor, that Sherlock would have been good for you.” He gestured at John with the tip of the umbrella. “Contrary to what your therapist tells you, you do not have PTSD. You crave the battlefield, the adrenaline rush that comes with it. Your hands haven’t trembled once since we began our little conversation. And,” he paused to look over his shoulder into the kitchen, “you left your cane in the kitchen.” 

John glanced down at his empty hands in shock.

“Sherlock would have given you back your battlefield, had the two of you met. Pity, that he’s gone. Such a talent shouldn’t go untapped.” He peered at John for a moment longer before allowing one corner of his mouth to tip in a vague smile. “Good day, Doctor Watson. I’ll be in touch, perhaps. You’re not as ordinary as you appeared.” He gave John a nod, then nodded nearly imperceptibly over John’s right shoulder. 

After the sound of the man’s shoes clicking down the stairs had faded, John let out a gusty exhale. “Who the hell _was_ that?” he asked, stumbling a bit to retrieve his cane.

Sherlock, who had been standing just behind John’s right shoulder the entire time Mycroft had been talking, sneered, “My brother, Mycroft. Nosey pompous git. Don’t listen to him, John.” But John didn’t hear him⎯instead, his new flatmate rubbed at his arms a bit as the temperature in the flat dipped with the force of Sherlock’s displeasure.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://nickelsandcoats.tumblr.com/), come say hi if you like!


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